Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast (7 page)

With a roar like an avalanche, Urso lunged at him, trapping the spear beneath his paw and snapping the shaft in two with his weight.

Staggering back, Goryx squealed as if he—and not the bear—had been blooded. “Bring up the nets! Bring up the nets!”

Two men ran up, unrolling a rope net between them.

“No, stop!” Atalanta screamed, but she was too late.

The villagers flung the net over the bear. Its rope coils covered him and soon Urso flailed about, bellowing his rage, struggling to get free.

One man tried to press home too soon. His spear sailed harmlessly over the bear’s hump. Urso reached out with the one paw that was not trapped and clubbed the man to the ground.

Atalanta moaned and tried to run forward, but strong hands held her, almost throwing her to the ground.

“No!” pleaded a voice. “Let her be!”

It was Evenor’s wife, a long dark cloak around her nightclothes, running forward with her children right behind.

“She saved our children.”

All faces turned away from the struggling bear to look at the family with astonishment.

“It’s true,” Evenor confirmed in a commanding voice. “We owe her a debt. She killed a snake in our house. She’s a hero, that girl.”

There were some disgruntled mutterings from the men, and Phreneus called out, “A hero? Awfully small for such.”

“She did. She did,” called out the little girl from under her mother’s sheltering arm. “Caught a serpent and killed it. With her hands! It was ready to eat me.”

Her brother, braver, stood in front of his mother. He held the dead snake by the tail. “See! She could have just run off. But she saved Daphne instead.”

“You heard them,” said Evenor. “Let go of the girl. And let the bear alone. It’ll be tame once she’s loose.”

The villagers were reluctant to obey, but Atalanta broke free and ran straight to Urso.

“It’s all right,” she told him, punctuating her words with reassuring snorts and growls. “Nobody’s going to hurt you now.”

“She’s mad,” came Goryx’s voice. “That’s plain enough. As soon as we’ve killed the bear we should dig a pit to keep her in.”

C
AN’T YOU SEE THE
gods have sent us a sign?” Evenor’s wife demanded. “We were never meant to harm this animal or the wild girl.” Her hands tightened on her children’s shoulders.

Little Daphne broke from her mother’s grasp and ran over to put her arms around Atalanta, which brought her close to the bear’s claws.

There were mutterings in the crowd. Evenor started toward them, but his wife held him back. “Don’t worry, Evenor. The bear won’t harm Daphne. Can’t you see—the wild girl won’t let him.”

“That bear broke my spear,” Goryx complained. “He’s nobody’s tame pet.”

One or two of the men grunted their agreement.

“You broke his skin first,” Atalanta retorted, turning to glare at him.

Now little Daphne was astride the bear’s humped neck and he turned his head slowly to look at her, though he was still bound by the net.

Evenor started forward again as the bear’s tongue lolled out and gave Daphne’s leg a big swipe.

“He tickles!” the child called out. “Do it again, bear.” She kicked his shoulders with her bare heels, and the bear licked her a second time.

“His name,” Atalanta said, “is Urso.”

“Urso! Urso!” cried the little girl, putting her arms around the bear’s neck.

Her father came over and lifted her off. “Poor bear. He’s tired. He’s had a long night and his shoulder is hurt. Come, Daphne, climb down so we can get that net off of him.” He sent her off to her mother with a little push.

Reluctantly, she went back to the safety of her mother’s embrace while Evenor gingerly helped Atalanta free Urso from the net.

Evenor’s wife nodded her head at Atalanta. “You can stay with us,” she offered. “It’s much nicer inside the house than…” She looked with dislike at the stake in the middle of the village where the shredded rope now hung down like a dead serpent.

Shaking her matted locks, Atalanta demanded, “What about my bear?”

“We’ve…we’ve no room for him inside,” the woman said a bit hesitantly, adding, “but he can sleep by the door. First, though, let’s see about his wound.” She put her hand out. “I am Herma, Evenor’s wife. You saved our children and we’ll repay the debt.”

Atalanta took the offered hand. “And I am Atalanta. There is no debt to repay.”

By the time the rest of the villagers had returned to their own houses, Evenor had produced some oats splashed with honey for Urso. At the same time, Herma brought out a vial of ointment to spread over the gash in the bear’s shoulder.

Atalanta made Urso lie down and keep still while Herma applied the salve. Herma was not a great talker, which Atalanta appreciated, and they worked side by side in companionable silence.

Once the bear was taken care of, Herma turned to Atalanta.

“I’ve stew in the pot. I’ll bring some for you,” she said almost shyly.

“That would suit me,” Atalanta said. “Can I eat it out here? Urso could use the company. And…”

“I promise no one will hurt the bear,” Evenor told her. “If it will make you easier, I’ll stay outside with him.”

“No, he’s
my
friend,” Atalanta said. “He was injured because of
me
.”

Just then Herma returned with a pottery bowl brimming with stew. Atalanta took the bowl and sat down by the bear while Evenor and Herma went back into the house.

Urso coughed once, and sniffed audibly at the food until Atalanta poured half of what she’d been given in front of him. He ate it quickly, then almost immediately went to sleep.

Once she’d eaten what was left in the bowl, Atalanta lay down with her head on Urso’s flank. She slept only fitfully for the rest of the night but—for the first time in weeks—with a full belly.

In the morning, Urso was gone, having sneaked away while Atalanta slept. In a way she was relieved. That way none of the villagers could change their minds about him.

The door opened and Herma came out with another bowl, this one filled with dried fruit, and bread smeared with honey. Daphne clung to her skirts.

“Where’s Urso?” the little girl asked.

“Gone off by himself for a couple of days,” Atalanta replied.

“But I wanted to pet him,” Daphne said.

“He didn’t want any more petting,” her mother told her. “Now—go bring Atalanta a cup of fresh water.”

Daphne hurried back into the house.

The fruit was good, but the bread was even more delicious. Almost as good—Atalanta thought—as her own mother’s baking. Atalanta hadn’t cared much for learning to cook and her father had been hopeless as well, so they’d gone a long time without good bread.

“With the…Urso…away, you’ll be wanting some company then,” said Herma.

“Company!” Atalanta exclaimed in disgust. “Why would I want that? People crowding around. Asking questions. Telling me what to do. Getting in the way. No, I don’t need anybody or anything.”

“That didn’t stop you taking the fruit and bread and honey” Herma pointed out.

Atalanta grinned. “I said I didn’t
need
it. I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

“Everybody needs companionship,” said Herma. “You could have a good life here with us—a warm bed, a roof over your head. And I could use the help. With the baking, with the washing, with the children.”

Atalanta made a face and took another bite out of the bread. “Those things belong to you, Herma, not me: I don’t want them.” She lowered her eyes and frowned into the bowl.

“What
do
you want?” Herma whispered the question.

“Almost everything I want has been taken from me. All I’ve got left is my freedom. I won’t let you steal that.”

“We’re not trying to steal anything from you,” said Herma, putting her hands out, palms up.

Atalanta’s voice rose. “But you are—all these comforts, all your kindnesses. How can I stay free if you lure me that way?” Atalanta looked past the cottages to the woods beyond. That was where she belonged—not here.

Evenor suddenly appeared in the middle of their argument. He put his hands up, the sign of a peacemaker. “Maybe you can have the bread and honey
and
keep your freedom,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Atalanta and Herma spoke as one.

Evenor put an arm around Herma’s waist. “Well, your bear isn’t around all the time, is he?”

Atalanta looked confused, but Herma clapped her hands. “Of course.”

Biting her lip, Atalanta looked down at the ground. She still didn’t understand.

Evenor explained. “Just as it’s the bear’s nature to come and go, so it could be yours. When he is away, you could live with us.”

Looking up as if expecting a trap, Atalanta asked, “Why would you want that?”

Evenor smiled at her. “Fair exchange, child. We’ve had a hard winter, with a hard spring as well. Game is scarce, as if something’s been chasing it away.”

Atalanta suddenly looked down again at the ground.
Should I tell him about the beast?
Then she thought:
Since it’s gone, disappeared, vanished as if it had never been, what would be the point?

“We’re having to hunt in places far from the village,” Evenor continued. “And you know those parts of the forest better than we ever will.”

“So…” Atalanta thought she knew what he was getting at.

“So if you would guide us, show us the deer trails and the watering places, show us where to set our snares, you could have a place with us here in Eteos whenever…”

“…you wanted to!” Herma finished.

Putting her hands on her hips, Atalanta glared at them. “Why should I ever want to do that?”

“Child, you could get injured, it happens to the best of hunters,” Evenor said.

She looked at the scar on his arm, remembered her father dying of his wounds.

“Or get sick,” Herma added. “Who would take care of you then? The bear? He would make a very poor nurse.”

Atalanta suddenly thought of how her father had nursed her through a bad cough the year before. And how sweet the honey on Herma’s bread had tasted.

She tried to think how to answer without sounding as if she were giving in. “I’m not saying I
need
anything. But I could give you some help. In exchange for a share of the kill.”

“A fair share of anything you help us catch,” Evenor agreed, offering his hand.

She drew back warily. “What are you doing?”

“This is how we seal a bargain,” Evenor explained. “We clasp hands.”

Herma’s eyes were wide. “Have you never…?”

Atalanta shrugged. “It seems a funny way of doing things, when a promise should be enough.” But she suddenly recalled her father at a market fair shaking someone’s hand. She held hers out and Evenor took it in his, squeezing the fingers gently.

“But remember this,” Atalanta said sternly, pulling her hand back, “we’re not hunting any bears.”

I
N THE MONTH THAT
followed, the hunters swore they’d never known such a summer for game. “Especially after last winter and spring,” said Evenor one day when they were heading home with a brace of quail and seven rabbits. Over his shoulders was slung a gutted stag. “We feared all the game was gone.”

Atalanta thought briefly about the orange-tufted creature that had killed her father. Had it moved on to a fresh supply of food?

Not that she had given the creature much thought lately. Now she had a comfortable life, and on her own terms, too. As long as she could find the villagers what they needed, she had a choice spot next to a hearth on cold nights—when Urso was off on one of his solitary jaunts—and a healthy share of the meals.

Of course the littlest children, led by Daphne, shadowed her whenever she stayed over, pestering her with questions.

“Do you always sleep on the ground?”

“Do you have your meat raw, like a bear?”

“Do you and the bear ever eat people?”

Sometimes Atalanta answered. “We never ate a person yet, but if we did, we’d have to start with something small.” Then she’d pounce on them making growling sounds, and they scattered like hens before a fox.

The village children her own age, though, ignored her or made faces. One or two still called her names under their breath. She guessed they were jealous, especially the girls, that she had such freedom.

Gradually, as summer blossomed and then faded under a brilliant blue sky, Atalanta found herself changing. For example, she took more care with her hair when she visited the village, combing it out and braiding it up again. At one time she’d given some thought to simply cutting it off short.

Herma had been aghast at the idea. “Only slave women have short hair.”

“I’m no one’s slave,” Atalanta had retorted. She kept her hair long.

She’d also begun to enjoy talking with the villagers—not just to Evenor and Herma but with many of the others—even the ones who’d shunned her before. However, one or two of them still grumbled about her presence and the influence she had on the children, a few of whom now liked to play “wild child,” which mostly meant not washing and going too far into the woods on their own.

Only Goryx still complained openly.

“She’ll turn on us one day,” he muttered aloud. “You mark my words, she’ll turn on us just like a wild beast.”

One day Urso returned from marking trees around the forest to set the boundaries of his territory. He seemed reluctant to join in their usual game of gentle rough-and-tumble and didn’t answer Atalanta’s snorts and snuffles. Instead he growled irritably at her when she persisted.

Eventually Atalanta sat back on her haunches and fixed narrowed eyes on him.

“I know what’s bothering you,” she said. “I’m starting to smell of baking and wine, hearth smoke and soft covers.”

Urso made a whining noise.

“It’s the deal I’ve struck,” she explained. “It’s my plan. I help them out—and they leave you alone. Besides, what right do you have to grump about what I do? I don’t complain when you go off by yourself, do I?”

She batted him playfully on the nose and he knocked her onto her back with a shove of his paw. Then he rubbed his nose against her ribs until she started laughing uncontrollably.